Governing Passion (12 page)

They looked down at the body, slumped on its
side. It was warm all right. She was wearing a fur coat and a
ladies’ fur hat and ladies’ button boots. Cobb was not surprised to
see the thick, blond hair under the hat.

“Looks like an older woman,” Rossiter said.
“And these are fancy clothes. This is no whore.”

And that spelled trouble. If somehow a
respectable woman had found her way into Devil’s Acre, then the
consequences of her death would go straight to the mayor’s office.
The public outcry would be a clamour.

Rossiter bent over to have a closer look at
her face, now clouded by the rapidly falling snow. “There’s
somethin’ wrong with her hair,” he said.

Cobb took a look. “It’s a wig,” he said.
Then: “And this ain’t no lady. It’s Simon Whitemarsh – in ladies’
clothing.”

***

Leaving Rossiter to wait for Dr. Withers, Cobb
headed straight back to the brothel.

“There’s been another murder,” he said to
Madame LaFrance in the vestibule.

“Who? My girls are all safe.”

“Simon Whitemarsh, yer Galahad.”

“Oh, my!”

“He was dressed in ladies’ clothin’. Do you
know anythin’ about that business?”

“Of course, I do. Galahad was fond of
cross-dressing. He was here earlier – with the other two Cavaliers
– and got all dressed up, with make-up and everything. He made
quite the lady. I sold him some clothing from time to time.”

“What time did he leave?”

“About ten minutes before you and that other
constable did.”

“What about Gawain and Lancelot?”

“They were spooked by your being here. I told
you that you were ruining my business. They headed out right after
you. And threatened not to come back.”

So, Cobb thought, his two chief suspects were
still in the picture. One of them could have caught up with
Whitemarsh and slashed his throat, taking him for a blond woman. He
would have to interview them again, if he were allowed back on the
case. And that was problematic as the Chief could be furious that
the murder of a respectable gentleman (albeit a cross-dressing one)
had taken place right under their noses. With a sigh, he headed
back to talk to the coroner.

***

The next day the news of the ghastly murder of Simon
Whitemarsh spread throughout the city. No mention was made of the
fellow’s eccentric haberdashery, only the fact that he was an
upstanding citizen in his prime. It was assumed that he had by
mistake wandered into Devil’s Acre or that he had been partaking of
one of the gentlemanly pleasures offered there. And this was the
third murder in just over a week! Was no-one safe on the streets of
Toronto? The mayor was feeling the pressure, and when he did, he
made sure his Chief Constable suffered likewise.

Cobb had his report ready for Bagshaw by
early afternoon. He was drowsy and irritable, but waited patiently
while Bagshaw read the lurid details. (Cobb was desperate to get
home and get some sleep in case the Chief wished to continue the
night patrolling of Devil’s Acre.) Whitemarsh’s throat had been cut
with a serrated knife and he had rapidly bled to death, unable to
cry out for help. The star-shaped bootprints had been present
again, suggesting strongly that they were looking for one mad
killer.

“So you think Mr. Whitemarsh was mistaken for
a woman,” Bagshaw said when Cobb had seated himself in Bagshaw’s
office.

“He had a wig and was plastered with face
paint,” Cobb said. “I even sniffed some fancy perfume. And all his
clothes were ladies’.”

“I trust there’s no need for these details to
come out?”

“Well, sir, any inquest will have to know he
was the third blond victim to be murdered in the same part of
town.”

“I suppose so. But the coroner’s holding off
for now.”

“I found the bootprints again.”

“And these were in fresh snow?”

“No, but I’m sure the killer made them,
sir.”

“But you lost the trail at Jarvis
Street?”

“I did see someone up ahead, to the north,
but lost them in the snow.”

“And so you conclude our killer is a
gentleman with large boots?”

“Probably, but it did occur to me that he
could be putting on oversize boots to throw us off the scent.”

“You’re giving the madman a lot of credit.
And may I remind you that gentlemen are not given to such mad
behaviour.”

Though they are cross-dressers occasionally,
Cobb thought. But he said, “It’s the fancy pattern of the
bootprints that tells me this fella is a gentleman, a gentleman who
hates blond-haired women.”

“My God, Cobb, Devil’s Acre has three
miscreants for every house, and you’re still harping on your
gentlemen. Those boots could be stolen, and probably were!”

“All three murders have taken place within a
stone’s throw of Madame LaFrance’s. I know it’s where we oughta be
lookin’.”

Bagshaw folded his hands together on the
desk. “Now, Cobb, what I want to know is how a murder could happen
right under the noses of three experienced constables?”

“The killer must’ve seen Wilkie and me go
into the brothel fer five minutes to warm our feet.,” Cobb said
evenly.

“You left your post!” Bagshaw quivered to the
roots of his brittle hair.

“Just fer five minutes. I wanted to see what
gentlemen were in there.”

“Looking for suspects, were we? Instead of
doing honest police work!”

“The murder must have happened just as Wilkie
was gettin’ back on his patch. The killer knew we weren’t gonna
catch him in the act.”

“And you certainly didn’t.”

“That place is such a maze, sir. If the
killer knows his way around, he could murder someone right under
our noses.”

“But surely you know your way around by
now.”

“Not really. Wilkie still bumped into me
earlier.”

“Are you saying my patrols are useless?”

“I’m sayin’ I think I need to investigate
some more, that’s all.”

Bagshaw sat back and grinned nastily. “What
I’m going to do is add a fourth constable to the night-patrol
there, and have you investigate in the daytime, if you think it
will help. But I don’t want to have any complaints from gentlemen
you’ve disturbed. I’ve already got the mayor and three aldermen on
my case. Now go home and get some sleep. You’ve got a long night
and a day ahead of you.”

Cobb slunk out, exhausted and not a little
peeved.

***

Even Dora was sympathetic.

“Why don’t that man try ploddin’ in the cold
fer a night in Devil’s Acre,” she said, pouring Cobb a cup of hot
tea.

“He wants me to investigate,” Cobb said,
sipping at the tea, “but he won’t give me any leeway. And I gotta
patrol to boot.”

“You got any new leads?” Dora said.

“I’m gonna talk to Pugh and Clough again.
They were both there last night.”

Dora put out a plate of biscuits. “You
remember tellin’ me about a laundry woman on Church Street, after
Sally Butts was killed?”

“That’s right. She might’ve got a close look
at our killer and doesn’t know it.”

“Why don’t you try and find her?”

“But she could be anybody takin’ laundry in
to any of them dives or brothels.”

“There’s somebody who might know, though,
isn’t there?”

“Itchy Quick,” Cobb said, and Dora
grinned.

***

After a cold, fruitless night patrolling Devil’s
Acre, Cobb decided to have a morning’s sleep and then go back to
his detective work. First up, about two o’clock that afternoon was
a visit to one of his old haunts, the Cock and Bull. In a far
corner, in a shadowy alcove, sat his current snitch, Itchy Quick.
(Nestor Peck, his long-time snitch now had a regular job in a
chicken hatchery and no longer needed the occasional boost to his
income that a little tattling would supply.) Itchy was anything but
quick. His several hundred pounds saw to that. His movements were
slow as a sloth in hibernation and his thought processes only
marginally speedier. But he spent a lot of time in taverns, cadging
pennies for a drink and selling information he picked up in his
travels.

“How’s it goin’, Itchy?” Cobb said, sitting
down.

“My flagon is empty, Mister Cobb,” Itchy said
sorrowfully. “Like my life.”

“Would a fresh ale improve yer spirits
any?”

Itchy thought about the offer for several
seconds, rubbing the back of his scalp. “It just might.”

Cobb waved at the barkeeper, who, seeing it
was Cobb, hustled over.

“A flagon of your finest,” Cobb said.

“You payin’?” the barkeeper said.

“I’m payin’,” Cobb said.

“Thanks, Cobb.”

“Now that I’ve done you a favour,” Cobb said,
“how about doin’ me one?”

“You want some information?”

“I do.”

“On the murders we been havin’ the past
week?”

“Somethin’ to do with them, yes. You been
hearin’ anythin’ on the street or in here?”

Itchy scratched his scalp again. “What I been
hearin’, it ain’t the fault of any of the regulars of Devil’s
Acre.”

“That’s been my feelin’, too.”

Itchy took hold of the flagon that had just
arrived and downed half of it, slowly but surely. “They tell me
it’s terrible fer business. They need respectable folk to feel safe
in there. They wouldn’t do anythin’ to ruin their own
prospects.”

“So it’s got to be somebody from outside,
doesn’t it?” Cobb said, more to himself than to Itchy, who was in
the midst of a second swig.

“Some crazy person, that’s fer sure.”

“But what I wanted to ask you, Itchy, is
about the laundry women who might go into Devil’s Acre.”

Itchy looked at the empty part of his flagon
longingly. “Well, the big brothel, Madame LaFrance’s, does its own
laundry. But there’s a smaller brothel, Mrs. Purdy’s, up near
Church Street that uses somebody from the outside.”

“And you know who?”

“I believe I do, yes.”

Itchy drained his ale with a meaningful
slurp. Cobb sighed and waved at the barkeeper.

“Gracie Fitchett. She lives on Berkeley
Street, this side, two houses up from King.

Cobb tossed a coin on the table and got up.
“That’s what I needed to know,” he said, and hurried out.

***

Cobb found the house on Berkeley Street. It was a
ramshackle cottage, unpainted, with a roof that sagged, and
tired-looking oil-paper windows. A wreath of black smoke poured out
of its single chimney. Cobb rapped on the door.

“Who’s there?” The voice was female, but
sharp and low, like a witch’s cackle.

“Constable Cobb, with the Toronto
police.”

“Go away! I’m busy workin’.”

“I need to talk to you – about the murders in
Devil’s Acre.”

“I didn’t do it, so go off and leave me
alone.”

“I insist you open up, madam!”

The door squealed open and a large woman
filled the doorway. She was flushed and sweating, the beads of
sweat rolling down her plump cheeks and settling in the folds of
her multiple chins. Her blue eyes were round as buttons and stared
out at the world with sustained belligerence.

“I told you, I ain’t no murderer!”

“I didn’t say you were, ma’am. But I believe
you may have seen the killer on the night when Sally Butts was
killed.”

“I remember the night that poor lass had her
throat cut, but you can’t get round me with that ‘ma’am’ business.
I’m no ‘ma’am,’ just plain Gracie.”

“May I come in for a minute, then?”

“You gonna help me with my laundry? I got a
tubful ready to come out.”

Cobb glanced at the far side of the room as
he walked in, spotting several steaming tubs, a pair of washboards
and a mangle. Gracie Fitchett was indeed hard at work.

“I just need to ask you one question,” Cobb
said, shutting the door behind him.

“Since when do bobbies ask people questions?
I thought you bashed in the heads of drunks and robbers.”

“I’m a detective,” Cobb said, as if that
explained all.

“What in hell is a detective?”

Cobb winced, but said evenly, “I investigate
serious crimes like murder and robbery. My job is to go around and
ask people questions.”

“And they pay you fer that?”

“They do, and I’d appreciate it if you’d
answer one fer me.”

“All right, then. But I’ve got to get them
sheets out of the tub before they boil to death.”

Cobb waited patiently until Gracie was
finished and came back to him, puffing and panting.

“Were you in Devil’s Acre the night that
Sally Butts died?”

Gracie thought about the question, then said,
“I was. What’s it to ya? I told you I didn’t stab that poor girl.
Why would I?”

“What time were you there?”

“I don’t know fer sure. Between nine and ten
o’clock. I had a load of laundry to pick up at Purdy’s place.”

“Purdy’s is over near Church Street, isn’t
it?”

“Yeah, that’s right. What of it?”

“You left Devil’s Acre by Church Street?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s the nearest exit.”

“Did you see anyone else come out of Devil’s
Acre at that time?”

“Say, you’re way past yer one question.”

“Please, just answer me.”

“I didn’t see a soul – that time of
night.”

Cobb was hugely disappointed. Surely this was
the figure the watchman had seen that night. But she herself had
seen nothing.

“Thank you fer yer help,” Cobb said.

Gracie’s expression softened as she said, “I
hope you catch the bugger.”

***

Cobb went to Bartholomew Pugh’s house once more, and
was once more snubbed by the butler. He found Pugh in his billiard
room, practising his bank shots.

“You again,” he snarled. “What is it this
time? I’ve given you a description of the killer. Why haven’t you
caught him?”

“You were at Madame LaFrance’s again the
night before last, the night Mr. Whitemarsh was murdered.”

“Damn shame that. You’re not accusing me of
killing my own friend?”